


sweet dreams and flying machines

by victorlimadelta



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Amputee Shiro (Voltron), Cowboy Keith (Voltron), M/M, Meet-Cute, equine therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28858422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorlimadelta/pseuds/victorlimadelta
Summary: If he’d known when he’d gotten the property twenty-five years ago that it’d be this much work... well, a nine-year-old wouldn’t have known what to do with it, that’s for sure. Keith had tried his hardest to ignore the specter over his head as he grew up, but everything that he’d experienced had pulled him back to this place, time and time again. It’s like he couldn’t quite leave it in the past, no matter how hard he tried. The trustees had kept the land itself in good condition, but it had been up to Keith himself to decide what to do with it.So, this. A dude ranch.—Keith owns a ranch that rescues horses. Shiro’s been gently pushed to try equine therapy and stays for a week.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	sweet dreams and flying machines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mirax3163](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirax3163/gifts).



> happy birthday @Mirax3163!

The ranch has had a good few dry days in a row in April, at least. The trails aren’t all churned to mud like they’d been a few weeks ago after that gullywasher, but that means they’ve gone all thorny and dusty again. Keith’s got to remember to bring a bandana and sunglasses next time he scouts the property for damage. It’ll keep the worst of it out of his nose and mouth, and his aviators can take care of the rest. For now, climbing down off of Red, he hocks the mucus out of his nose, ugly but efficient. A quick scrub of his shirtsleeve against his stubble takes care of the rest. He sweeps his leather vaquero hat off his forehead as he pulls Red into the stable, hair stuck to his brow with the sweat of hard work, ponytail down the collar of his shirt barely held back by a poorly-looped, repurposed bolo tie.

Out of the corner of his eye, Keith can see Lance pull a face from where he’s brushing down the white dapple mare. He’s a younger guy, way too obsessed with appearances to be working at a place like this, but he’s good with horses (like Keith), a native Spanish speaker (unlike Keith) and likable enough to keep the ranchhands in line when he’s not directly supervising (most definitely unlike Keith). He has a feeling he’s going to lose Lance once summer comes around, the unbearable heat with the oppressive humidity that covers Hill Country, but maybe not. Kid’s from Cuba. If anything, Keith’s going to have to give him a two-week vacation for him to go see the family he never shuts up about. Keith gestures to Lance to get back to work, and Lance rolls his eyes and smiles. Nice enough guy, just has to be directed to stay on task.

With spring on the calendar, the scrub brush around the ranch property is shyly trying to come into a soft bloom. It’s making Katie’s allergies go crazy. She’s never been too good with the larger animals, anyway, so Keith has no problem with sending her home early so she can catch an appointment at her specialty clinic 45 minutes away to get her seasonal shots. She shouts a thank-you as she mounts her modified dirt bike and speeds up the main road—and Keith only remembers he was going to ask her about the electric fence on acre 46 as she gives her customary goodbye beep-beep.

Well, shit. Those shots take three days to get in her system. There’s always Matt that he can ask, but the guy’s only on property once a week, and he probably needs to take a look at the generator feeding cabins 5, 6, and 7 before he needs to look at some stupid fence that’s technically not even broken. Besides, it’s hell getting him around the property when he refuses to get on a horse, and Keith has to call ahead for Matt to get his ATV to come with him. Kinda sucks about the leg, but what was Keith supposed to do, _not_ hire the guy just because he was an amputee?

If he’d known when he’d gotten the property twenty-five years ago that it’d be this much work... well, a nine-year-old wouldn’t have known what to do with it, that’s for sure. Keith had tried his hardest to ignore the specter of it over his head as he grew up, but everything that he’d experienced had pulled him back to this place, time and time again. It’s like he couldn’t quite leave it in the past, no matter how hard he tried. The trustees had kept the land itself in good condition, but it had been up to Keith himself to decide what to do with it.

So, this. A dude ranch. It’s open to the public for reservations, has about twenty cabins and four larger buildings for guests, anywhere from one to three bedrooms and plenty of room for families to stay. There’s a breakfast round-up in the mornings with a hayride to the little campsite, followed by a morning ride staggered into groups so none of the rescue horses get overworked. Lunch is served in a group, then there’s the same style ride in the afternoons plus some kind of activity—mostly for kids, like bringing other types of livestock to the main building for show-and-tell and pictures. There’s dinner every night, mostly beef with other homestyle, hearty sides, always impeccably put together by Hunk. That guy knows about a hundred different ways to cut up a cow, all of them delicious.

Keith spends most of his evenings with the other on-ranch vaqueros, nursing a vodka soda in the age-restricted ‘saloon’ just off the dining room. There’s usually some kind of live music, even if just from Antok singing along gravelly with Thace’s guitar, and even if his rumbling voice is mostly in Galran instead of English. It’s a unique draw of their little place, that it still maintains some nearly-lost indigenous traditions through Keith’s family ties, his mother’s people.

Lance thumps his shoulder (his bad shoulder, though not on purpose) when he passes, dusting off his hands. “You know you don’t have to come down to the barn just to hang out with us, right? We can manage without the big boss breathing down our necks.”

Keith shrugs him off, smiling. The gesture tugs at the scar on his face. “Don’t worry about me, kid. I’ll be along in a minute.” Red needs put away, after all. He’s good to her, feels a need to be. He doesn’t have anyone else.

By the time he kicks the dirt clods off his boots and starts up the trail to the main building, the sun is slinking down, painting the horizon with a peach-orange-red stain. Right before he hits the main building, Keith spots Bandor headed for his sister’s car, ready to make his way home for the day. “Romelle’s looking for you.”

“She’s always looking for me.” Keith doesn’t know what he would do without her. She runs the business side of the ranch, keeps track of money and expenses and maintenance and customers and marketing and merchandise without the kind of effort it would take him to keep this tiny place afloat. “What is it this time? Low on TP? Cattle got sick?”

“I hope not,” is all he gives Bandor a chance to say before he’s crossing the broad wrap-around porch to enter the building. There’s four older ladies that have pushed the generations-old rocking chairs together for some after-dinner gossip, but the building seems mostly empty.

He startles Romelle with the ding-a-ling of the little bell above the door that signals a guest, but it’s just him. She relaxes visibly once she knows she can take off her customer-service face. “Hey, hoss.” Her smile is just a little wicked. “You wanna check the guest list?”

“No.”

“You do. There’s this guy who booked Cabin 1 for the next week.”

That’s their disabled-accessibility cabin. “We full up?”

“Nope.”

“So he chose that one?”

“Yep.”

“O...kay...?” Not weird enough for Romelle to grab his attention over it, but okay. “Ready for him on check-in?”

“Oh, yeah, everything’s fine.” She’s still smiling. Keith doesn’t like it. The apples of her cheeks are a little too rosy for their mundane conversation to merit it. “He’s _just fine_ ,” she sing-songs.

There it is. “Melle—”

“Oh my god, Keith, you should see him!” That was enough to set her off, apparently. “He’s got this streak in his hair, and his arm, and he’s got this dimple just on the one side when he smiles, and I think he could actually crush your head between his—”

“Melle.” Thank the stars, she stops. “Stop trying to set me up with the guests.” It was bad enough when she was trying to set him up with the temp hands, or the new employees. Yes, Lance is nice. Yes, Lance is gorgeous. Yes, Lance is funny. No, Lance is _not_ his type. (Maybe Lance might be his type if he gave it some time, but no one ever sticks around long enough for Keith to find out.) “Close up. Go home.”

“Yes sir,” she says, and snaps her guest book shut.

Keith had a destination in mind in coming through here: the saloon. It’s not really anything much, just a few taps rigged to some half-stale kegs, old license plates and wagon wheels tacked up to the wall, but it has his vodka, and he knows Kolivan will have saved him a plate while setting up as tonight’s bartender. Good thing, because he’s hungry.

His drink is even ready by the time he takes his customary stool. The mashed potatoes on his plate have gone cold, but they’re still perfectly fluffy and buttery. There’s only a few other adults in here, so it’s nice and quiet besides the gentle hum of conversation and old country music. This is one of the few places on-ranch where kids aren’t allowed, 21-and-up only by state law, and it’s the lull season between spring break and summer vacation, so not many people around.

Kolivan’s pretending to clean a pint glass behind the counter. Keith tilts his empty old-fashioned at him: _refill, please_. The other man, however, shakes his head before darting his eyes intentionally over Keith’s shoulder at one particular table behind him.

At first, Keith had thought the only people in the saloon with them were other ranch employees. Turns out he was wrong. When he swivels, he can see Ulaz at a table with someone he doesn’t recognize, his dark hair cut into a military fade. The stranger has broad shoulders stretching a plaid shirt to its limits, jeans that aren’t light enough at the knees to be worn with any kind of regularity, and combat boots tucked under the table. Looks like Ulaz is teaching him checkers.

Well, it’s the first night Keith’s seen him on the property. He might as well introduce himself, seeing as he owns the place. Kolivan knows him well enough that he can see Keith needs the prodding; he’s introverted by nature and prefers to keep to himself if he has his druthers, but the business deserves better than a surly proprietor who gets along better with horses than with people. Fine. He can do this.

No sooner does Keith turn and push off from the barstool than the guest clacks his black piece across the board with nothing less than a victory shout. He’s a young guy, by the looks of him, barely old enough to meet carding requirements to get in this part of the building in the first place. Heavy brows. Light, narrow eyes above—above a broad, pink scar, with a shallow indent that crosses the bridge of his nose and edges out symmetrically to both cheekbones. A shock of silver hair that falls across his forehead. The arm that’s closer to Keith fills out that shirtsleeve well (shit, just his deltoid might be bigger than Keith’s bicep), but then he swivels in his chair and the other sleeve is pinned up at the elbow. Not rolled up. Pinned up, nothing else, no right hand to match his left. The guy in Cabin 1, Keith realizes.

“Nice move,” he says, and instantly hates himself.

All Ulaz has to do is turn to Keith and raise an eyebrow to have an entire conversation with him. _You’re introducing yourself personally to the guests now? Did Kolivan put you up to this, or was it Romelle? What makes this one special? Did you think up that line all by yourself?_

_Shut up_ , Keith glares at him right back, _you’re the one teaching him board games_. He owns the place, he can do what he likes. And if what he likes is scoping out their newest guest to see how a guy like him ended up in a place like this, well, that’s his prerogative.

The stranger doesn’t seem to see any of that silent dialogue, thankfully. “You think so?” He’s all earnest, almost cheerful. Romelle was right, he does have that lopsided dimple thing going on. “This is the first time I’ve played.”

“Coulda fooled me.” A gentle sort of white lie. Keith’s about to offer his right hand for a handshake in greeting before the sleeve catches his attention again. Instead, he pulls his fingers back into a fist, rubbing his thumb against his knuckles. “I’m Keith,” is all he can think of to say.

“Call me Shiro.” _Shee-roh_ , a peak in the middle that ends in a lovely round vowel sound. Keith likes it. It’s unique, just like the guy in front of him. “What do you do around here?”

“Drink, mostly.” Short, curt, and _stupid_.

Shiro chuckles anyway, like what he said was actually humorous. Ulaz, thank some higher power, steps in before Keith can get any more acquainted with the taste of his own foot in his mouth. “Keith owns this ranch.”

“Oh.” Shiro sits up a little straighter in his chair. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to offend.”

“Only by calling me ‘sir’. Just Keith is fine.” He’s studying the board now, pulling over a chair so he can put the back to the table and vault over the seat of it like he’s mounting a horse again. Feels good to be in the saddle, even just like this. “You’re used to chess.”

“How can you tell?”

“The way you covered the board. Watch his next move.” And Ulaz takes one of his kings and starts vaulting the stacked chips over, and over, and over again, taking piece by piece with short raps of the plastic against the cheap coated cardboard. It’s a TKO, nothing but red markers on the board now. “Show-off,” Keith mutters.

“Good game,” Shiro says, and offers his left hand to Ulaz. (Oh, okay, so that’s the protocol.) Ulaz stands and reaches out the same, but clasps his forearm in the Marmoran way rather than offer a handshake. At first Shiro looks taken aback at the easy familiarity of the close contact, but then he returns the gesture affably, nodding firm and letting Ulaz take his leave.

That leaves just the two of them at the table. Keith doesn’t have a glass, and Shiro’s is empty. “What’s your poison?”

“I shouldn’t,” Shiro demurs. Keith gives him a look. “Not another, at least. One is plenty for me. I’m, ah, on some medications.” He doesn’t have to wiggle the stump of his right arm for Keith to know what he’s talking about. It’s not awkward or anything, even though it feels like it should be.

Keith shrugs. “You’re not missing much. All that’s on tap is well water.” The only beers they have right now are Shiner and Lone Star, and whatever Matt’s been brewing in his garage that he swears is fit for human consumption but tastes like a loaf of rye bread and a vat of cream soda had a foamy, soapy abortion.

“I thought you were Texan. Aren’t you supposed to be defending your brand to the grave?”

“My brand is Tito’s.” Shiro gives him a blank look. “Vodka.” There’s the sparkle back in his eyes. “Not tonight, old-timer, you need to get to bed and take your meds.” Which is funny, because although Shiro’s already losing the color in his hair, he’s at least a decade younger than Keith.

“Maybe tomorrow?” Shiro teases him right back.

Keith looks at him. Really looks at him, long and hard. Shiro doesn’t back down, all doe-soft gray eyes and straight white teeth in an unerring smile, and Keith is _weak_. “Maybe tomorrow,” is all the concession he’ll give out loud, even though he’s already made up his mind. “Will we see you at the hayride breakfast?” Back to business, make his guest feel at home.

“What time will it be?”

“Seven.”

“Oh, that’s no problem. I don’t sleep past five.”

“In the morning,” Keith clarifies. When he was Shiro’s age, you couldn’t have pried him out of bed at that hour with a stack of pancakes and a crowbar.

“In the morning,” Shiro agrees. “You can take the guy out of the military...”

Well, that... explains some stuff. The ramrod-stiff posture, the deference to authority, the easy way he’s been interacting the older men that make up Keith’s inner circle of vaqueros. (He won’t presume to know anything else.) “We come around at six forty-five for a morning call.” Over the scrape of his chair as he stands, “Be at the barn by seven for the ride and it’ll take you down to the campsite.”

Shiro’s up, too, locking his left arm in a stretch and hissing in a yawn. Damn, he’s tall, too. Taller than Keith, and he’s six foot slouched. “Sounds good to me.” Keith turns to leave, but to his surprise, Shiro keeps up with him. “Will you be there?”

“Uh.” Keith hadn’t thought that far ahead. He was going to do a morning ride to the southwest corner of the property for his Thursday surveillance, maybe call in to the vet Dr. Holt for some supplies if Romelle gets the list together. It’s not like he has to be present at every ranch activity, or he’d have to clone himself or something to be everywhere at once. “Sure,” he gives in, because he finds he can’t say no to those eyes.

They’re at the threshold to the porch by now. The night is bright and starry—less light pollution this far out from major cities. San Antonio is an hour and a half away. “Sounds good,” Shiro says. Then, at length, peering out into the night, “if I can find my way back to my cabin.”

“This way.” Keith’s acted as an informal tour guide enough, as the property owner, that it’s easy to fall into that routine with Shiro. Like he’s just another guest. But he’s in the cabin cluster that’s closest to the main building, and he shouldn’t need directions to get back and forth. “Tired?”

“Long day,” is Shiro’s explanation.

“When did your flight get in?”

“I don’t fly anymore.”

There’s a lot in that sentence to unpack, but it’s not his baggage, so Keith lets it be. “You drove in? From where?”

“Roswell.”

“That’s...” Quick finger math and map recollections, “an eight hour drive, jeez, no wonder you’re so wiped.”

“Took my OSHA mandated breaks and everything,” Shiro jokes. “Don’t worry, I have a knob for the steering wheel.” Right—the arm. “The worst part is gas stations.”

Keith can imagine. He hates stopping in those kinds of places himself. It’s not so much about the haunted liminal space of a small-town Texaco at half past ten in the morning on a weekday and more about the people there, how they always look at his face (at the _scar_ ) and have that question in their eyes that never quite makes it to their mouths.

He’s thought up a witty little turn of phrase to that just about the time they show up at the doorstep to Cabin 1. The lamp above the jamb has a yellowed bulb and too many moths in the fixture, but it casts a soft, almost sunny light across Shiro’s face. Like this, the pink of his mark fades away into something that doesn’t matter so much. “So, this is me,” Shiro says.

Like a romantic comedy. “This is you,” Keith confirms, a little out of step.

“Thanks.” Shiro has his key in hand, but he has to bend at the waist to reach the lowered doorknob. (Why do accommodations always assume that someone’s going to be in a wheelchair?) Keith shouldn’t be looking at the way Shiro’s leaning over, but his eyes are sinning. The other man has a trim waist and an ass that actually manages to fill out the back pockets of his jeans. “See you in the morning?” he’s asking.

“Yeah,” Keith breathes, looking up to his eyes again. Fuck, he hopes he wasn’t caught staring. “Yeah, see you then.”

Shiro smiles. He even lets go of the knob to give Keith a little wave before he slips inside. It’s not until the door slams in Keith’s face that his soles hit the earth again and he has the good graces to grimace at himself.


End file.
